


Third Degree

by beautlilies



Series: What I've Tasted of Desire [1]
Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, NOT GOOD THINGS, don't listen to her lies she said make it sad, issues between husband and wife, it is so very sad, mentions of house fires, miriam encouraged me to do it, or healthy relationships, peaky blinders inspired, she told me to make it sad, thoughts of betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautlilies/pseuds/beautlilies
Summary: the peaky blinders inspired fic i had no business writing
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale
Series: What I've Tasted of Desire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104035
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Third Degree

**Author's Note:**

> miriam now i really want hunger games jalice or a new one shot

The storm comes with Jasper.

An end of ash and fire. Touch so hot it burns. Scorches the strings that tether, incinerates the foundation that steadies. Pale skin that loses her hue, her distinction and her individuality stolen in the collapse of it all. Loses the melodies, the songs she sings with each kiss of ash and smoke, clouds that smother and flames that stifle. Fingers that wiped away remnants of nightmares, washed away blood of friends and foe alike, tender and delicate in the ways she had never imagined herself to be in, pain so excruciating and so agonizing, it hurts to breathe, hurts to think of handling the soft strands of her children's hair. To aid her child in the simple things - straps of shoes, pages to turn, names to write. 

A candle left to burn, toppled over - a child, an accident, the hands of an enemy or two - and catching on extravagant drapes, velvet furnishing and thousands of books feeding the belly of the inferno. An accident met with pity. The loss of her beauty, elfish and unique in the pinched features, small and delicate with the tip of her nose and the pinch of her lips. Skin torched and thin, grotesque to catch a glimpse of in the mirror. Her children, the love she has for her husband, for the possibilities of their life in a physical form, manifesting in dark hair and unruly curls, his striking green eyes and her coloring, flinch with every glimpse they catch of her, cringe away from her touch, avoid looking at her. 

She does not leave the house. Not after her oldest child pushed his curls back with his hands and gave a frustrated sigh at the thought of her coming into town with him. Not after the second child refuses to walk to the schoolyard with her. Not after her youngest asks why her skin looks like burnt paper, rough and discolored and unsightly. She reminds them to be safe, and if allowed, gives them a small kiss on the crown of their head.

Left to suffer, left as a reminder to friends and family the brutality of his hands, the nature of his soul in relation to the business he has slaved over since before the war stole his gentle smile and his easy laughter, she secludes herself in the farthest wing of the house, each color and each oil painting waiting for her with open arms. Her hands stain, her fingers tremble holding the brush. Lines sloppy and unrecognizable. Once steady touch now stolen, left with jerks and wobbles and unblended patches that taunt her. She rages at the canvas each day. Topples them. Sobs. Curses the cruelty of the man she loves for keeping her alive. Refusing to let her go. From taking everything from her.

He hardly comes to see her. Never comes to bed, hardly comes back to this large home in the countryside he built just for them and their large sprawl of children and horses and dogs. The children rarely ask for him, know that if they wish to see him in passing they could find him in his office or throwing back Irish Whiskey with his brothers and the latest woman he’s decided to spend the night with. A sister that comes to tend to her at least once a week, tending to her skin and her heart. Rages with her. Cries with her for this is the life neither of them wanted, the life neither of them deserved. A sister with a husband taken by a tango with the mafia that should not have been crossed, shot several times in the front of their home. Left with several children and a hole in her chest and the ever present reminder that now she is dependent on her monster of a brother, for the safety of her children, to keep their bellies full and hearts warm.

And when he comes to see her, he stares. Looks at the way her skin crinkles and stretches awkwardly. Watches the way her eyes never change in her fury, in her hatred. He listens to the vitriol of her words. Sometimes, he will react. Fight her fire with his own, a devil's tongue of vengeance and betrayal. A new storm of flying glasses and pictures of happier times thrown off furniture. Stomping and doors slammed. Curses in every language. Sobbing. Blaming. 

Then he leaves. Off to a new country. A new business opportunity. Chasing an infinite well of money, contracts and secrets. Falling between the legs of other women with a striking resemblance to her, to his first love betrayed him in the name of duty, a badge of respect in the eyes of her government. Never truly got over the loss of her. Never truly healed from that betrayal. Always skeptical. Always anticipating the worst from the best people in his life.

He’s stolen so much from her. Snatched it all without the slight inclination of regret. 

He took it all for nothing. The slight bit of proof of her betrayal, coincidental and doctored, burned along with the soul of Mary Alice Whitlock.


End file.
